rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years went
slipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had never
understood before, because he had never once been among men in great
trouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this while
there was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside and
the airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharp
burning smell--she couldn't get off the ground.

Rush was sitting hunched over in the snow, his rifle across his knees.
He was coated a thick white and if he hadn't spoken Dylan would have
stumbled over him. Dylan took out his pistol and sat down.

"What happened?" Rush asked.

"Lining burned out. She's being repaired."

"Coincidence?"

Dylan shook his head.

"How long'll it take to fix?"

"Four--five hours."

"It'll be night by then." Rush paused. "I wonder."

"Seems like they want to wait 'til dark."

"That's what I was figurin'. Could be they ain't got much of a force."

Dylan shrugged. "Also could mean they see better at night. Also could
mean they move slow. Also could mean they want the least number of
casualties."

Rush was quiet and the snow fell softly on his face, on his eyebrows,
where it had begun to gather. At length he said, "You got any idea how
they got to the ship?"

Dylan shook his head again. "Nobody saw anything--but they were all
pretty busy. Your theory about it maybe being one of us is beginning to

 Prev. P 13/21 next